A Thousand Dreams within me Softly Burn
by OnyxDrake
Summary: Ilvin Lavellan's encounters with Solas bring with them a singular sweet torment – precursor flash pieces related to my longer work "So Long as I Have Breath to Give".
1. The Ghost of His Touch Lingers

Nightfall doesn't bring peace, and the conflict in the valley below continues in pockets punctuated by the eerie flashes of lightning or fire. The screams reach us, echoed, thin. Men and women dying.

I can't sleep. Not with this going on. I should be down there quelling this insanity, but every muscle aches from today's past skirmishes. I've stopped counting how many shemlen have fallen to my fire, and I don't know whether I'll ever get the crust of blood from under my nails, for when my magic has not been enough, I've struck with my staff. And it's been messy. Bloody.

So I perch upon the rock, precarious on the edge. Inquisition sentries are posted about but if Cassandra sees me "endangering herself with reckless behaviour" again then I may just fall upon the Seeker's blade out of sheer peevishness.

"The more things change, the more they stay the same," Solas says behind me.

I haven't heard him approach, and I bite back a hiss, square my shoulders. "I wonder at the wisdom of being involved."

The man leans against a pine tree to my left, and the moonlight reveals his strong features. He is not beautiful, but there is something arresting about his features, that strong brow, straight nose and the cleft in his chin. I can't say that I'm overly fond of the bald head, but more often than not over the past few weeks, I've found myself drawn to him.

"The conflict is larger than mere mages and templars," he says.

"Not that they're seeing the breach in the sky for their own differences," I add then continue my vigil, far too conscious of him.

And it's the quiet times like this night, and other occasions, where we seem to gravitate towards each other. Is it because we're the only two elves in the party or is it something else? He's a haughty one, if ever there was. I constantly gain the impression that he looks down on me in some way. Yet he sat by my side for three days when I was out of it, apparently. I've been told that when everything went for a ball of shit after the Temple of Ashes got blasted, that he'd calmly walked into camp, handed in his staff and had volunteered his services.

Talk about reckless behaviour.

He doesn't speak, and somehow his silence, and the mere thought that he is near, weighs heavily on me. My fascination with the man is ill timed. Yet away from my clan, I'm cut adrift. Late summer now, they'll be preparing for the coming winter in earnest. I should send word. By now Keeper Deshanna would have heard of the disaster that befell the shemlen; naturally she'd assume the worst – that I perished alongside them.

Yet we've been moving hither and thither all this time, leaves blown in winds I cannot fathom. This cursed Mark aching and hurting, and the never-ending stream of demons and rifts, and this strange magic that flows through me that is contrary to all that I've known up until now.

"I hope we're done with this sorry business by autumn," I say to Solas.

He gives a soft snort. "We'll be so fortunate."

"What do you mean?" What does he know that I don't?

He shakes his head, crouches down next to me, holds out his hand. "How is the Mark?"

For a moment I'm tempted not to acquiesce, but obedient, I offer him my left hand. "It hurts, especially today."

"Two rifts in one day. We should have rested."

"I could handle it."

"You don't know your limits, da'len."

I bristle but don't say anything. His touch is so gentle, the way he probes at the slumbering Mark. His magic is summer rain on hot stone, and the petrichor washes over me so I close my eyes and surrender to the coolness. "Mmm, that feels good."

He traps my hand between his long fingers, a gentle cage. I could pull away from the contact but I don't. After so many weeks of being on my own, guarded, constantly aware, it feels good to have someone touch me in a way that is caring, tender.

It won't last, I know, but I'll savour it while I can.

I breathe out, open my eyes to find him gazing at me, the moonlight shining in his eyes. The way he studies me makes me want to turn my face, but I meet his gaze evenly.

"What do you see?" I ask.

Solas seems to catch himself, for he straightens, clears his throat. He withdraws his hands and rests them on his knees.

"It is late. I must meditate." He rises. "I suggest you get some rest."

Then he is gone between the tents, leaving in his wake that peculiar scent of him that makes me think of fallen leaves and moss, and something wilder, indefinable.

The ghost of his touch lingers, and I flex my fingers, bring them to my lips.

What must it be like to kiss him, feel his cool touch elsewhere on my body as I give in to unexpected passions? It's true what the stories say, that during times when one is faced with death, that one feels truly the fear of nothingness, and that one seeks the affirmation of the flesh.

Out here in the Hinterlands, I am far from clan and kin; not quite a little girl lost, but close enough. And I find myself wanting, craving something that is difficult to place but I know that if I don't snatch what joy I can, it might be stolen from me. The breeze whispers in the pines, and a sudden flash below in the valley is nearer and brighter than any of the others.

"Herald," one of the shemlen sentries says, not far from me. Her voice betrays concern.

I hiss as I rise, scan the valley one last time, then turn back towards camp.

"I should not take unnecessary risks."


	2. Lily of Arlathan

Always, events conspire to keep us apart; it must be some strange magic of the Creators, laughing at me that I've found something beautiful and precious to hold onto. That first kiss, the first taste of him follows me to my dreams, yet I cannot be certain whether I'm merely dreaming or if indeed he joins me.

Our gazes meet across the Great Hall, but I must walk with Josephine while she explains the intricacies of Orlesian protocol for some noble's incipient visit. We brush past each other in the library, his arms laden with books, but I must go see the tranquil who takes care of our research, quickly, because in less than a quarter of an hour I need to be at the war table. Or I'll be standing on my balcony, watching the stars, mired in dog ends and half-witted worries, when I'll hear his voice, so contained yet bright, while he's in quiet discussion with Sera down on the landing. Sera, of all people? If it weren't that I know she's just not into guys, my jealousy would rise inside me and turn my heart black.

Yet it's the night that I stumble back from the Herald, having disentangled myself from one too many hands of Wicked Grace, that I stray towards the rotunda. The thin slice of light under the door betrays the fact that Solas isn't sleeping…yet.

I pause by the door, my heart thudding sickly. Should I go to him? Mother always said the halla shouldn't chase the wolf, but I can't help myself.

Come dawn we'll be leaving for Crestwood. Weeks might pass before I see him again, since we've decided that we require his expertise researching the shards collected in the Hinterlands.

I swallow, draw breath. What if he's busy? I've watched him while he paints; I've never seen someone so thoroughly engrossed in his work, mixing pigments, daubing fine graduations of colour. Or he might be reading, a small frown creasing the centre of his brow in a way that makes me want to smooth the lines away with a kiss.

Mother always said I didn't have enough self-control. Of all the youngsters in my generation, I was the one who got her hand stuck in a beehive when the smoker's ember died.

I push open the door and pad into the chamber on cat feet. "Solas?" I pitch my voice low.

He's fallen asleep in his armchair, a book carelessly slipped from one long-fingered hand, head tilted to the side.

I should go; he's probably lost somewhere in the Fade, communing with the spirits of Skyhold and reliving some ancient past I can't begin to fathom. Yet I shut the door behind me, with nary a squeak as the latch falls into place. Above, in the rafters, the ravens mutter and the hushed whispers of their pinions betray their disturbance. Solas stirs, turning his head to the other side. One hand is briefly held up, as if he'd tell someone to halt. I pause.

The even rise and fall of his chest tells me he's deeply asleep, lips parted slightly. He murmurs in an elven dialect so obscure I have no idea what he says, and I wait until he's calm again before I continue my approach. To trace the contour of his jawline, to pause with my thumb on his lip so I can feel his warm breath on my skin. That's what I want.

Yet it's when I'm within grabbing distance that he awakens with a start, and snatches my wrist before I can withdraw.

"Vhenan!" HIs grip, almost painful, relaxes instantly from painful to firm.

I try not to wince. "I'm sorry, I –"

"Shouldn't sneak up on me like that!" But he's smiling. "I've missed you."

My heart lurches. "And I you. It's been so … frantic."

He brings his other hand to the small of my back and pulls me closer, and it seems the most natural thing in all the world to straddle him, perch myself on his lap so that my thighs enclose his. I'd never have dared to be this forward back among my clan, but here, surrounded by shems and away from the judging eyes of Clan Lavellan, I'm just Ilvin, the Herald, a lost elf, a woman who knows her own mind, who doesn't know her place – and that's fine too.

I can feel the heat of him through my leather breeches, and his kisses are hungry like the wolf as he parts my lips with his tongue so that he can taste me.

"You've had mead," he whispers in my ear.

"You don't like it?" I ask, and push away a flutter of concern. I don't want to ruin this moment, with his hands clasping my hips.

"I do, it's just." A small shake of his head. "The taste reminds me of another time."

"Did you love her?" I ask.

"Oh my lily of Arlathan, it's not what you think." His storm-grey eyes reflect the light of the myriad candles guttering in the sconces.

For a moment I swear I detect regret in his expression but then he pulls me down for another kiss that ignites a fire within me when our magics blur and mingle around the edges. I want to weep with the flames that curl through my veins and the aching between my legs as I press myself against his hardness. Our clothing is a barrier but I'm mindful that here anyone can look down from the library and see the Inquisitor and her apostate lover. Our breathing grows ragged and we pause for air. His pupils are dilated, and there's a flush to his cheeks.

I smile, bite my lip. "Solas."

"Vhenan?"

"I require instruction with regard to some of the names of the constellations."

His lips twitch with a barely restrained grin. "I do believe we'll have an adequate view from your balcony."

"Let's continue this conversation elsewhere, ma lath?"


	3. Pressed Against Stone

I can't say I'm enthusiastic about visiting Valammar the second time round, but the sooner I can deprive Corypheus his red lyrium supply, the better. Entering the thaig is the last thing any of us want to do, and Varric has had more than enough to say about all the aforementioned topics ever since we left camp this morning.

In fact everything about this day conspires to make us stay topside – from the molten gold of the sunshine, to the verdant growth still redolent with spring's freshness. I think of those close, dank passages and a small part of me shudders. My only consolation is that for once I've brought Solas.

He keeps his mountain horse abreast with my hart, yet he's gazing off into the middle distance, a slight smile tugging at his lips. I require all my self-control to not ask him what he finds so amusing.

Cassandra and Varric are arguing again – this time about an ending the dwarf put in one of his tawdry novels I still hesitate to read. We're all doing our best to pretend that we're _not_ descending into that abandoned thaig – that much I'm certain.

Somehow it all goes according to plan – too smooth, in my not so humble opinion. The dwarf Bianca meets us at the entrance, we go in, and sort out the Carta then take care of the darkspawn we did not expect.

And yet … Solas and I find that rare stolen moment that we haven't had since leaving Skyhold, in the most incongruous place of all – in one of the chambers. Ostensibly, Solas has requested time to study some of the carvings, with me keeping watch while the others rest (or rather Bianca take advantage of our presence so she can help herself to what she terms 'invaluable items'). We are in no rush to return just yet, now that we've cleared out the thaig.

"Are you going to peer at that carving the entire day, Solas?" I ask.

He glances up. "Oh, you're still here." Yet his game face slips, and his amusement is apparent.

"Ha. Ha. Very funny." I push back from the wall against which I've been leaning and so my best to sashay to where he's crouched by a fallen pillar. I stop when I'm standing before him. "Dunno, I quite like having you on your knees here before me."

"Has the Inquisitor's position gone to her head?"

"Perhaps, but are _you_ ready to serve her?"

He doesn't bat a lid. "How does she wish to be served?"

My pulse speeds up. Should we? Dare we? I glance over my shoulder, strain my hearing, but all I can detect is the rush of the falls outside. The lamplight flickers, casting his face in dancing shadows. I lick my lips, allow what I hope is a wolfish grin to my lips.

He moves before I can stop him, and rises to his feet in a fluid motion. Hands on my hips as he nudges me against a stone sarcophagus. Solas parts my legs with his thigh, and I'm all too aware of the heat of him, the wildness of his scent. His lips hover so close, so damned tantalising close, but he doesn't kiss me.

"For once, is my Inquisitor at a loss for words?" His breath tickles, the small hairs on my nape rise and my armour becomes too constricting.

We shouldn't.

He claims my mouth roughly, his tongue invading, tussling with mine. Lips at once pliant yet firm as he all but steals my breath. Though he can't reach my breasts he creeps one hand beneath the mail shirt and down into my breeches. I groan and tug at the laces, loosening them just before he breaks them like he did last time, the bastard. As it is, I can feel the thongs taking strain just before the knot gives.

One hand on his shoulder, the other pushing back on the lid of the sarcophagus, I only just manage to keep my knees from buckling as he finds my hard nub. Fingers slick with my moisture, he teases my slit, dipping in but then retreating, and making me groan because I want so much more than I can have.

Here we are, hot, sweaty and begrimed with blood, and … _fuck_ … I need him, need him filling me, to remind me that we are alive, that we breathe yet and that we can partake of the pleasures of the flesh.

We pull apart briefly, our breathing ragged, and something indefinable passes between us. No words are necessary. He grabs me by the braid and twists me around, so that I cry out at his sudden roughness. All I can do is brace myself against the stone. He all but crushes me with his weight as fumbles with his own breeches. The head of his cock slides wetness over the mound of my ass before he enters me – hard and sudden so that I choke back a cry.

For a moment we exist in a fathomless moment on the cusp of the storm. I never want this to end. But then he withdraws with a hiss and plunges in deeper, with more force, so that I'm not sure of the pain or the pleasure. It's pleasure, definitely pleasure, and I push back against him as he builds up a frantic rhythm so at odds to our other times.

Nothing matters except for our frantic coupling, our breathing raw as we come together in a frenzied burst. His shout echoing in the chamber.

Spent, we remain as we are, the warm press of thigh against thigh, him covering me with his torso pleasantly heavy despite our disarray. Hot, messy sex.

"Inquisitor?" The slap of Cassandra's boots is urgent in her approach.

"Fenedhis!" I fumble with my laces.

Solas, damn him, has that shit-eating grin again as he straightens his clothing before I can arrange mine.

"I'm glad you find this amusing!" I spit.


	4. On The Road

I don't want to overnight at Redcliffe, but it's clear the others are exhausted. A week by horseback from Crestwood, every bone sore and jolted. At least it's stopped raining. There is that. Yet the muck from our misadventure is stubborn, crusting in the seams of our clothing and leaving a powdery residue in our supplies. Not to mention the fact that Sera hasn't once quit bitching once about how she's had to replace three of her bowstrings.

My gaze is drawn to the snow-laden peaks, to the fine mist trailing down the ravines, and my heart softly burns because _he_ is there, somewhere in that mountain fastness. _Not much further now._

He might be painting, daubing bright pigments to grow the ever-expanding mural. Or he might be poring over texts retrieved from our library, brow furrowed in concentration, lips moving silently as his gaze follows a long finger.

Long fingers that have caressed my face, sought the warm well of my most intimate spaces. Fingers that have spread me, played me like a delicate instrument to bring forth music to make the gods tremble. Despite my weariness, I ache for him, long for the way he fills me, traps me in his embrace and makes me feel that I'm the one who's at his mercy. There is no Inquisitor, no wandering apostate when I'm with him, only the mingling of our breaths, our sweat, our passion. We are at a point of unity for those brief moments of fire.

Or the quiet hours, when he'll tell me of the wonders that he's discovered in the Fade, and on his journeys, while those same long-fingered hands tease snarls out of my hair. The ghosts of his words send tremors down my spine, even here, at least two days' ride from Skyhold.

If I'm subdued downstairs in the common room this night, Sera says not a word. She's busy trying to cheat Varric at a hand of Wicked Grace while Cassandra offers her sage advice to the dwarf on how he should end his next serial. Occasionally they'll cast a glance at me, where I've been revisiting the same lines in a battered copy of Genitivi's little-known sonnets. Trifles, really, but there's something soothing about reading the verses over and over again until different meanings are revealed. A form of meditation, if it were.

I imagine my lover and I ensconced in a bedroom, the curtains drawn and sunlight sending its fingers through the nowhere dust. His sleepy breath, the slow rise and fall of his chest. Nipples hard pebbles beneath my fingertip when I tease them. Then we turn, spooned together, and an arm curls possessively around my waist so a hand can cup a breast. And I feel the hardness of him, his cock pressed against the small of my back and a small trail of moisture cooling when we shift to get more comfortable.

The nights at Skyhold where I've taken such closeness for granted; then when we're travelling, alone in my tent on a hard pallet I've ached and shivered for him. Lying on my back staring into the darkness wondering what he's doing while the rest of the camp settles.

Later, I'm trying (and failing) to sleep. There's a couple in the room next door to mine whose soft murmurings aren't muffled by the walls. Their unrestrained passions filter in through the cracks, accompanied by the thudding of the bed. I'm not sure whether they're the doughty dwarven pair we noted in the common room, or the tow-headed Fereldan couple who came in late, brushing raindrops from their cloaks.

Whoever it is, their sighs and moans remind me all too much of what I'm missing, how I feel with _him_ invading me, filling me, pressing me down on a table so I'm exposed to him, bare. That slap of flesh against flesh, hot breath against skin, the scrape of teeth on my nape. Fingers digging into me, tearing at me with the desperation of a hungry man who cannot get enough. The frantic push and pull, the inevitable rise of our powers mingling – two rivers twining until they combust into a conflagration of fire.

Somehow I manage to sleep, after my fingers have provided paltry relief, and in my dreams I travel through mirror after mirror, hunting him, until I awake the following morning exhausted, with Cassandra thumping on the door that it's time for us to get going.

The rain that so bedevilled us in Crestwood seems to have sought us here on the flanks of the Frostbacks, sending damp fingers through every seam of my oilskin as we ride. Long guard hairs from my hart's coat adhere to my leather leggings, and the grassy scent of the beast overrides the resin of the pines as we rise along the trail. Rivulets turn into small torrents, dragging stones and sticks with them. We cannot hear each other speak over the ever-present drenching, and our last night on the trail before Skyhold is a miserable affair huddled around a smoking fire under a lean-to.

"I should really get this turned into a proper shelter," I mutter into my coffee.

"You say that every time we have to overnight here," Varric says.

"We've been busy."

"No shit. We could have slept over in Haven."

My dreams this night chase themselves nose over tail – frantic, fleeting things that refuse to be trapped and turned over in the garish light of day. I mark the last day in the signs that we pass. Here a crooked pine struck by lightning. There the rock Varric says looks like a troll's cock. Not that any of us claim to have seen one.

Yet when Skyhold grows out of the heights, my heart thrills. The pennants snapping in the chill wind, the particular quality of the air that makes my blood sing. My hart, sensing a warm stable, bellows and needs little urging to close the intervening distance to our mountain fastness.


	5. Sunset on the Plains

The Enavuris flows deep and brown, the waters carrying a marrow-deep chill. Autumn in the Exalted Plains means mist wreathing the granite outcroppings in the mornings, the patches of forestland shaking their golden crowns as the season turns. No matter when and where we go, signs of conflict are everywhere, some ancient and some new. Evenings find us staring numb into flames, faces soot-smeared and our tin cups with a shot of brandy clasped loosely. I never wanted to bring _him_ , but the fear of leaving him behind in Skyhold for weeks on end has won out in the end. I don't want to sleep alone at night. Not with my nightmares.

Even Varric is silent for once, the scrap of chamois paused as he polishes Bianca's stock. Then he sighs, gets a faraway gleam in his eyes, and continues with his ministrations. The constant rasp of Cassandra's whetstone, _schiiick-schiiick_ , would ordinarily drive me mad, but I'm too tired to say anything. My gaze keeps straying to the rise beyond where the horses and my hart are picketed. Where _he_ vanished between the tall grasses only two hours ago. I'd wanted to go with him, but damnable Requisition Officer Surois kept me busy with reports for a good hour after our arrival late afternoon.

I don't care about sourcing veridium mines, nor the best locations for rashvine. Yet as Inquisitor, these are my concerns. Paperwork waiting for my spidery signature. A child's scrawl on official documentation. And while I've fretted about supplies sources, Solas has padded away on silent feet. He mourns his friend still, and we're camped not far from where that fateful occurrence took place. I can't help but curse myself for a fool for insisting that he return with me when those wounds are still so fresh. I am selfish, in that respect.

Now the shadows are grown long and blue, and my heart is heavy. Varric offers only a sly smirk to Cassandra as I too find my way out of camp. Two soldiers follow – at a discreet distance, of course. I could lose them both in a heartbeat, if I should so wish, but I know better than to give Cassandra cause for conniptions. For the present, I'll pretend they're not there, not keeping me safe from demons, the undead, errant Venatori. Who knows, who cares?

This evening the Mark on my hand aches, my fingers alternating between numb and tingly, and I clasp the afflicted limb to my chest as I walk. The ground is cool beneath my bare feet and, though Vivienne has predicted it, I have yet to step on a discarded arrowhead and contract lockjaw. There are some customs they won't take from me.

Each step makes the burden of Inquisitor lighter. Or at least I can make believe, perhaps that I am a hunter stalking elusive prey. There's a recklessness to my movements, my heart beating a little faster, my fingers itching with incipient magic wishing to be unleashed. Stupidly, I've left my staff back at camp. I don't expect trouble. My heart draws me along, understanding implicitly where I need to go to find its twin.

He's sitting on the slopes of one of the strange rock formations – this one resembling a stumpy, three-fingered hand reaching to the sky in supplication. The last light has painted his skin in rosy tones, and though he doesn't turn to greet me, a slight indrawn breath, a relaxation of his stance betrays that he's aware of my arrival. I pause, shoot a glance back at the two luckless shem. They're young, easily intimidated, and hang back. One taps the other on the shoulder and points out a distant landmark in the opposite direction.

"I missed you at the fire," I tell him, my voice barely above a whisper. I sound like a child, petulant with need.

He sighs, the fingers of his left hand absently rubbing at the grip of his staff that lies across his thighs. Then with his right, he pats the shelf of rock next to him.

Solas's lips grow taut in an almost-smile as I close the distance between us.

Have I said something wrong? He's been so reserved of late.

Yet when he puts his arm around me and presses me to him, I know that all is as it should be – or is as it usually is between us. He wants me near, and I'll go to him each time. His personal scent makes me think of ozone, with a hint of musk, so different from any other male I've been close to. Sometimes when I'm alone, it's easy for me to recall those particular notes, which send a corresponding shiver down my spine and into my cunt. Because from there it's not much of a leap of the imagination to imagine the thickness of him invading me, the way he possesses me utterly.

We sit in companiable silence, the air growing chill, but there's a heat to him that makes the cold bearable. This is enough for me. I can't bear to look beyond this insurmountable challenge that faces us. Corypheus casts a formidable shadow; despite our successes, I cannot see myself, any of us, making it through alive. Each day without injury or death is a blessing, and in that way, I can have an eternity with my lover.

"You're quiet this evening," Solas murmurs, his lips tickling the tip of my ear.

"Too many thoughts," I tell him. "I don't want to think of what will happen when it's all over."

He sighs, shifts to pull me closer, hands clasped over my abdomen. "Then don't." Yet he sighs again even as he nuzzles my neck, his nose cold against my skin.

My laugh bubbles up, and I wriggle. For a moment his arms tighten, pinning me to him but then he shifts so that I am able to straddle him.

"With you I feel like I have forever in a day," I say.


End file.
